


Mock Apple Pie

by Draco_sollicitus



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Food is a love language, Happy Birthday Captain, M/M, Mild Cursing, Nostalgia, Pre-Infinity War, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve and Shuri would definitely be friends, birthday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 12:30:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15170822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draco_sollicitus/pseuds/Draco_sollicitus
Summary: Steve Rogers enjoys precisely one kind of dessert - and it's not one readily available these days. He's lucky enough to enjoy it for three birthdays in a row, here in the future. It's gotta be a helluva coincidence that keeps bringing mock apple pie into his life on the most patriotic day of the year.





	Mock Apple Pie

**Author's Note:**

> This is unapologetic fluff, written here on Steve Rogers' 100th birthday.

**July 4, 2015**

Steve got up later than normal on the Fourth, which meant 0530, and not 0430. Sam claimed that that was “not sleeping in at all, you nonagenarian freak,” which was, as Steve was learning, actually lovingly phrased banter from his grouchy friend.

Even after seven decades years on ice, Steve knew a thing or two about grouchy friends.

So Steve laced his shoes, put on his ball cap, and went for a run around a local field. They were somewhere in Europe, some nice, seaside town, and Steve enjoyed feeling the village wake up behind him as he did laps around the grassy fields, away from anyone’s sight.

The sun was fully up, but it wasn't hot out, and he was thousands of miles away from anyone who might think of today as special – Sam wouldn’t comment on it at all, after last year’s _disastrous_ party (Nat and Bruce had shown up with a cake, red and blue buttercream frosting and vanilla sponge, and Steve had burst into panicked tears; it had taken hours to calm him down, with the help of some of Bruce’s specially designed Xanax, and Steve had waved off their concern, waved off their questions, because how could you phrase _my best pal and love of my life’s still alive but he’s been tortured so bad he can't recognize me anymore, and his brain was so scrambled he didn’t know his name or me from Adam, and I miss him, I miss him so fuckin’ much my heart’s split in two_ without sounding absolutely batshit), and there’d be no reason for the little old ladies up on the avenue to stop him and congratulate him on anything like independence or freedom –

Twelve miles later, and Steve’s heart had neared something almost like calm, and he slowed in his sprint to a jog. It was just about 0600 now, which meant his favorite bakery was open (another thing to like about being over here – shit wasn’t closed today), so he jogged in that direction. He reached the cute storefront, with the blue shutters and the tulips in the windowsill, and he wiped his face off and took off his cap before entering. Stella gave him a toothy grin and beckoned him over to the counter.

“Heya Stells,” Steve greeted her. Her wrinkled face was alight with her happiness to see him – she knew him as Grant Barnes (for reasons he _refused_ to talk about with Sam), and he was always thrilled that she seemed to like Grant for being Grant, and not for anything else he could possibly do or symbolize. He examined the croissants in the front display, humming to himself. “What’s good today, ma’am?”

“Everything,” she teased, and batted her eyelashes at him. Steve snorted – she always jokingly flirted with him, and he always told her she was too young for him, something that was unfortunately true – and raised his eyebrows at her. “We do have something odd to try. A very nice man requested it, said it reminded him of something.” Stella turned and bustled around on the counter. “I’ve never made this before, but the recipe was very – oh what’s the word in English - specific.” She turned around, and Steve felt his eyebrows go higher in surprise. “It’s –”

“Mock Apple.” Steve huffed a laugh and braced his elbows on the counter, leaning in to examine it. “Haven’t seen that in years.”

“Did your grandmother make it for you?” Stella asked curiously. “From what I read about it, it was popular at a very different time in your country.”

“Yeah, yeah it was.” Steve looked at it admiringly. “Can I – this is going to sound silly, but could I buy one?”

“A slice?”

Steve shook his head. “Whole thing. You know me, big appetite.” Stella laughed and agreed, and then rung it up for him. Steve paid twice what she charged him, waving off her protests, and he carried the pink box out the door, promising to stop by and see her tomorrow. He began to wander in the direction of the safe house he was sharing with Sam, but he stopped at a bench on the outer edge of town instead, facing the woods. He took a seat and flipped the lid of the box open.

It wouldn’t be that sweet, he knew that much. And thank God it wouldn’t be – desserts were so sweet now, they hurt his teeth in a way Tony swore wasn’t biologically possible – and Stella seemed to have gotten the crust perfect. Steve ran a too-large hand over the top of the pie, dragging some of the crumb with his finger, and popped the digit into his mouth.

Tears flooded his eyes immediately, and he knew he must look insane, curled up around a pastry box on a public bench, crying his heart out. But the taste threw him _back,_ threw him back in a way that he never wanted to stumble forward from –

_Sarah Rogers, at the stove, humming to herself as she crumbled crackers into a bowl, ruffling his hair, ignoring his protests that he was twelve now, Ma, almost an adult –_

_The dark-haired, blue-eyed boy from the apartment downstairs hopping up on the fire escape, Ma sick and coughing in the bedroom, holding a box of Ritz to his chest, a black eye darkening on his handsome face –_

_The first Fourth in their apartment, the dark-haired boy chasing a crumb from the corner of Steve’s mouth with his thumb, and when Steve didn’t shy away, following his thumb with his own, full lips –_

Steve sat on the park bench and wept for a past that he was both three years from and seventy years from, for a boy that’d been taken from him, for a mother he’d never get to see again; he wept and clutched a small, pink box that had suddenly become his only tether to that past and those people and what was left of himself.

***

**July 4, 2016**

“Captain Rogers!” Steve turned from the window to smile at Shuri, T’Challa’s little sister who he had grown entirely too fond of over the last two months.

“Hey, Shuri.” She walked up to him, thin arms wide open, and Steve accepted the hug gratefully. She poked at his beard, and he snorted, swatting at her hand, not actually bothered by it at all.

“You seem to have let an animal die on your face, Captain,” she teased, and Steve fought the urge to stick his tongue out at her. She _was_ a princess, after all. “I am surprised, but not sad, that you visit us today.”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” Steve said honestly. His heart twinged in his chest, and of course the kid genius sensed it. She gave him a look of sympathy.

“There’s been no change, Captain. I will, of course, alert you the second there is one, but—”

“I didn’t come here expecting to see a change, Shuri, you don’t have to worry,” Steve assured her. “I just wanted to—” _See him. Confirm that he’s safe, that my nightmares haven’t come true, and he's vanished again. Smile at him, even though I know he won’t smile back. Spend today with the person I love._

“Ah.” Shuri nodded at him and joined him in looking out the window for a few moments of quiet. Steve liked the princess, he really did – she was twice as smart as Tony, but also twice as kind as any of them. She had an impossible knack for knowing what people wanted, what they needed; and she knew when she should hold back some of her brilliant mind, and let a moment breathe. Steve really, really liked the kid. And he owed so much to her.

She was the first to break this silence. “While you are here, though, I did make you something, Captain!”

“That’s very kind of you, but I don’t need more tech,” Steve said, smiling softly at her. She’d really done wonders for him and his team of outcasts – he loved Wakandan tech, even if he didn’t understand how it worked. It, thankfully, seemed to understand that he didn’t understand it, and allowed him to operate on sheer instinct, never going further or more sophisticated than he could handle.

“It’s not tech,” Shuri grinned enigmatically. “Come on.” She gestured for him to follow her, and they descended two levels from the floor where Steve had been sitting all day to her proper lab. “I had an inkling that you might need some kind of treat today,” she announced, once she had led him to a table with a box on it.

Steve started, and tried to control his frown. “That’s really unnecessary,” he protested. “Really, Shuri, thank you but—”

She held a hand up to stop his babbling, and then waved it over the box, which opened to reveal –

“This is apple pie, correct?” She asked coyly. “An American tradition?”

“It is and it isn’t,” Steve laughed, his eyes wet. God, the universe was weird. “But it’s my favorite kind.”

“I must have researched the wrong recipe then.” Shuri smiled that same strange, knowing smile, and walked away from the table. She waved a hand at him over her shoulder. “It was strange that it called for not a single apple. I’ll give you a moment with your pie, Captain.”

Like he said, Shuri seemed to know what people needed.

And right now, he needed to cry over a pastry. Again. This was becoming a very bad habit of his.

***

**July 4, 2017**

“Happy birthday, Stevie.” Steve looked up from his newspaper (which Shuri had rolled her eyes at before procuring for him – _they have the internet for that now, Captain,_ she’d scolded before relenting) his face caught between a smile and a frown.

“Thanks, Buck, but I don’t really—” He stopped himself though, his breath catching in his throat from the soft, nervous look on Bucky’s face. His arm was behind his back, his hair hanging slightly in his face; the sunlight drifted through the window of the guest quarters Steve stayed in while in Wakanda, on the odd days and sometimes weeks he was able to get away from the mad chase around the globe he’d been involved in since dropping the shield and his title and his –

Bucky was smiling bashfully at the ground, glowing in the sunlight, and Steve leaned forward, trying to get in his line of vision. “What is it, Buck?”

“I made you somethin’, punk.” Bucky met his eyes, something that had become incredibly difficult for him, something that was still strange for Steve, who knew Bucky as a debonair, confident young man. He loved this timid, often reticent Bucky just as much, though.

“Yeah?” Steve could feel the lines of his face soften, could feel his shoulders rounding out. “Whadya get me, jerk?”

“I know you don’t like your birthday,” Bucky cleared his throat, and Steve nodded at him encouragingly. “But –”

His arm came out from behind his back, and Steve rose to his feet to accept the present, a small box. He smiled at Bucky and walked over to the sleek, chromatic table and untied the package, trying to convey enthusiasm to soothe Bucky's nerves.

“Slowly!” Bucky whined. “That took me forever to wrap, Steve.”

“I woulda lent you a hand,” Steve said. Then his face caught on fire. “Oh God, I’m sorry, I meant—” Bucky was already roaring in laughter, waving his hand at him.

“You jackass,” Bucky snorted and then grinned at Steve with fondness crinkling at the corners of his eyes. Steve leaned in for a kiss, but Bucky swatted at him. “No, no foolin’ around, not until you fully appreciate the fruits of my labors.”

“It _is_ my birthday,” Steve grumbled mulishly, but returned to opening the present, this time with deliberate slowness. Bucky snorted again, but then rested his elbow on the table. Steve looked at him, and felt his heart swell with the wave of affection that washed over him, seeing Bucky’s bottom lip caught between his teeth, his cheeks flushed and eyes excited – it was almost like Bucky was the one getting the present. He’d always been like that. Generous. Selfless. Sweet.

God, he needed to marry him.  _Save that thought for later, Rogers._

Steve pulled the last bit of twine opened and lifted the flaps of the box.

Stunned, he lifted the item from inside. “You gotta be kidding me,” he breathed.

“Is it not the right kind?” Bucky asked nervously. “It’s just, you were always mad for it when we were kids, you know? So, I thought—”

“I love it.” Steve’s voice cracked. “And I love you.” He sniffed and set the mock apple pie down on the counter and offered Bucky a watery smile. Bucky looked alarmed, and rightfully so. Steve Rogers in ’44 would never have cried over a fuckin’ pie. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be a mess, it’s just – the last few years, I’ve had this pie on this day, and it reminded me of Ma, and of you, and of _home,_ and it meant so much to me to have it, and you’re here now, you’re really here, and it’s so much, and I don’t deserve this—”

Bucky’s arm was around him then, and Steve curled his body into the embrace instinctively, making himself smaller, wishing not for the first time that he was still the skinny, little punk from Brooklyn who fit under his best guy’s arm easy as anything.

Bucky pressed a kiss into his scruff and muttered, “Glad you liked them, punk.”

Steve straightened up and wiped his eyes, sniffing pathetically. “Them?” He asked, brow furrowed.

“Stella from the bakery?” Bucky laughed and rubbed his neck. Steve stared at him in shock. “I – uh – may have charmed her into baking that pie. Knew you were hot on my tail, knew you’d work through your birthday like an absolute fuckin’ asshole, wanted you to have somethin' nice on your big day.”

“Last year?” Steve asked, seemingly limited to monosyllables at the moment.

Bucky grinned sheepishly. “Might have slipped Shuri the recipe and your birthdate before they put me under. Told her to make it seem like a minor thing, or you’d never accept it. Like I said. You’re an asshole.”

“So’re you.” Steve stared down at the pie, and then up at his best friend, who was eyeing him with a still-anxious smile. “All that – for me? For my stupid birthday?”

“Don’t you dare call your birthday stupid,” Bucky said ferociously, his temper flaring in a way he so rarely allowed it to these days. He’d been a hot head when they were kids (nothin’ compared to Steve, but still), mellowed out after Azzano, and now often regretted even raising his voice. So, Steve was honestly surprised into silence, seeing him get worked up by this. “It’s not, okay? Your birthday was one of the first things I got back, your birthday and this recipe, and boxes of crackers, and fireworks. I remembered it, Stevie, and I knew it was right, and I knew it was _good,_ because there you were, a skinny-ass punk with a face I recognized, that I’d recognize anywhere, and it was a real memory because it was golden, and there was light, and you were laughin’ and callin’ me an idiot, and I’d have to be dead to forget that. Your birthday is the best fuckin’ day of the year, Steven Grant Rogers, so don’t stand there and feed me bullshit about how it don’t matter, because it means fuckin’ everything to me, do you understand?”

Steve nodded, still mute, and stroked his hand over the side of the box for something to do. He looked up at Bucky, who had retreated a little more back into the defensive shell he’d built for himself since he woke up again, and smiled. His guy returned it, thankfully, and the moment diffused back into something peaceful.

“Do you—” Steve tapped the pie tin thoughtfully. “Do you wanna share this with me?”

“Hell no,” Bucky said. “You’re eating the whole goddamned pie, Stevie.” He pulled a fork out of his cargo pants, and Steve looked at the utensil skeptically, knowing that Bucky kept other things like bullets and knives and machine oil in those pockets. Bucky pulled out another fork, and then another box from a cabinet in the kitchen. “I made myself my own pie. I ain’t sharin' with you. You bite.”

“That was one time,” Steve laughed and took his first bite, closing his eyes and fighting back a moan from the way the taste burst over his tongue. “One time,” he repeated, swallowing the piece thickly, and going back for another forkful. “And you fuckin’ asked for it.”

“I tried to take a single pickle off your sandwich,” Bucky rolled his eyes and stabbed his fork into his pie with a little more force than necessary. “And you tried to take a chunk outta me, Rogers.”

“You shouldn’t be so damn delicious then,” Steven said, fluttering his lashes, and Bucky choked on his pie.

“Fuck you,” he spluttered. “Flirtin’ with a guy when he’s tryna eat.”

“Did it work?” Steve asked curiously, taking another obnoxiously large bite of his pie.

“No,” Bucky snarled, popping his fork back in his mouth. Steve watched him with a smirk, knowing all too well what the telltale flush next to Bucky’s sideburns meant.

“…Maybe.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wanna make apple pie without apples, just like Bucky and Steve? [It's a thing.](http://www.snackworks.com/recipe/ritz-mock-apple-pie-83403.aspx)


End file.
